Beyond Reach

Like the arc of an asteroid’s predicted landing none of us are sure what’s yet to come as we ignore skin’s craving. We stay in this strange apart space where we cannot shake hands hug dance kiss cannot simply slide next to one another on couch park bench diner booth as we’ve always sat, loops for the same belt. By now we know someone struggling to breathe. A friend’s cousin, co worker’s spouse, or person we know more intimately. For me it’s a writing student, my doctor’s brother, a neighbor’s elderly father. Time falls from the clock, lies in a heap by the door.

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Pandora’s Moon

Let’s forget the echoes of my thirtieth year for there’s refuge in the night and the moon. Moonlit night where imagination stretches starward. Moonlit night where my name falls off like an autumn leaf. Moonlit night where I’m a sapling attune to winter wind. Moonlit night where my past hibernates, ant-sized.

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Left of Gandhi

Sittin’ to the left of Gandhi Peaceful intentions and all Honolulu Zoo behind me Girls playing volleyball Beautiful ocean Yet, the world burns in more ways than one My wife in the water, with beautiful fish I love it here Yet, the world burns The cardinal I just fed bread is thankful

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Day Job

After a night of therapeutic bottle and blunt passing He wakes on earth at 5AM In a lumpy bed He goes to the airport in his overalls Brandishing a handkerchief He scrubs the thick plastic windows With long handles bruises He watches the jets take off They move hot through the endless sky With purpose

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this humo ludens collaborans has many plans renewing vows supporting plants saving bees down on my knees with every breath we take in oxygen gifts from forests, meadows, mosses & ferns

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Without, Within

Tiny round-faced vaquita porpoises, dark-eyed mountain gorillas, intricately striped Sumatran tigers, so many species disappearing under greed’s heavy boots although the loss seems abstract as we stop at Costco for groceries, fill up the car before heading home.

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Now all I hear is my own hum so turn again to the window where a broken line of parked cars dots the whitening sidewalk, as the sun englobes the street in crisp detail and vivifies the skeletal oaks that scratch against the sky, implying the chimes of birds about to arrive. I lean against my window, note the dust motes pillowed on the glass like a moleculed yawn, so grab a rag and spot, on the ledge, two piebald pigeons strutting and pulsing back and forth as they peck along the sill in sync.

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For Sylvia

Fixed and firm you pull out frames slice wax caps and dip into combs of liquid gold. You tug red cashmere over platinum waves then smooth a tight, white skirt.

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